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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395396">the act of creation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox'>screechfox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>becoming [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Canon-Atypical Melancholy, Canon-Typical Bastardry, Canon-Typical Eye Trauma, Character Study, M/M, Pre-Canon, Skeletons, Trans Elias Bouchard, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Male Character, trans author</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:28:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395396</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry, old friend,” Jonah murmurs, lifting the skull so he can meet the empty sockets of its eyes. “I wish I could say that I tried to save you. But we both know that’s a lie.”</p><p>(A character study of Jonah Magnus, in three deaths and one life.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonah Magnus/Barnabas Bennett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>becoming [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>315</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. death of barnabas bennett</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thank you to the eye horror discord for cheerleading (especially cat &lt;3) and to mr charles cheese AKA jay for reading over the first draft of the first chapter. this fic wouldn't be happening without all of your encouragement and it means the world that you were so psyched about my trans idfic dreams.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Six years after Jonah begins the first iteration of the Institute, just a draughty office in the back streets of Edinburgh, he finds a letter on his desk. The paper is unusually cold to the touch, the ink half-faded even as it smudges below his fingertips. He recognises the cursive before he even processes the words.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My dear Jonah,</span>
  </em>
  <span> it begins, and Jonah knows that Barnabas Bennett is lost to the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down and reads the letter, teeth worrying at his lower lip. By the end of Barnabas’ plea, Jonah is bewildered to find his hands shaking, so vigorously that he has to put the paper down for fear of tearing it. It wouldn’t do to destroy a genuine record of the supernatural.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barnabas should have known better. Jonah told him not to go against Mordechai Lukas, just as he warned him away from a half-dozen other esoteric dangers it would be all too easy to stumble into. Yet in the end, his advice was disregarded — and still, Barnabas has the audacity to beg for his aid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonah glances around his office. His gaze lingers on points of disclarity: the fog outside his window, the places where meagre candle-light fades into darkness. Perhaps Barnabas still sits in this room, believing himself utterly deserted. Perhaps he has left, praying that the sting of isolation will lessen in the solitude of his home. Either way, Jonah knows enough of Mordechai’s skillset to know that Barnabas will never be at peace, no matter how he tries to ease his pains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only way to leave the Lonely, banal as it may be, is love. Barnabas may believe himself lucky to have kept all who knew him at arm’s length, but Jonah knows it has led to his downfall. He is trapped in a cage of his own making, and the poor fool doesn’t even know it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonah wonders if his own affections for Barnabas would count as love enough to break the Lonely’s spell, but he discards the idea as soon as it occurs. Jonah is by no means an unfeeling man, but he knows himself to be as cold and loveless as the peaks of the most desolate mountains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells himself it’s only idle curiosity that makes him raise the matter with Mordechai.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I mistaken in thinking that I shan’t be hearing from Barnabas again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mordechai gives him a typically unreadable look, dark and depthless. There is, perhaps, the faintest furrow of anger in his brow or the subtle curve of amusement in his thin lips. But Jonah can’t be sure; Mordechai’s very presence is restrained from all signs of connection or communication.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interesting that he contacted you,” Mordechai replies in lieu of an answer. “I’ve heard tell of his brother, and I was under the impression that they were close companions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Passed away some months before Barnabas incurred his debt to you, I believe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mordechai’s answering hum is devoid of any sorrow. It is simply an acknowledgement — and a paltry one, at that. The disinterest in his gaze is palpable, as though Jonah is no more than a faint mist that he could dispatch with a wave of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long silence, Mordechai asks, “Were you fond of him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonah goes still. Mordechai’s smile grows until it’s almost perceptible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truth be told, that very question has haunted Jonah since long before Barnabas’ last testament arrived on his desk. He isn’t fond of any answer he could give — not to Mordechai nor to himself. The fact is, knowing he will never see Barnabas again is painful; Mordechai has plucked at Jonah’s heartstrings with pale uncaring fingers, and the ache of it resonates in Jonah’s bones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no fellow-feeling in the hard lines of Mordechai’s face, but he owes Jonah a debt. Jonah imagines Barnabas’ relief, his smile and tears, the way he would never leave his side again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the same, what other opportunity will Jonah have to study the effects of the Lonely so closely?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No matter,” Jonah concludes. “I believe we have more pressing business to attend to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As time goes on, Jonah becomes occupied with more time-intensive projects. Millbank Prison was completed as planned, but it will be decades at the soonest before it’s fit for the Watcher’s Crown. Until then, Jonah is happy to play the part that Robert wishes to see: observing the forces of terror and keeping them in balance. He acquires some books from poor Albrecht, and discovers how hard it is to wash blood out of his clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over these years, Barnabas’ letter remains in a drawer of Jonah’s desk. Every so often he reads it to himself, the cadence of those terrified words like an invocation to a god who never came. Their chill becomes a familiar comfort, even as so many other stories grow stale and tired around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he returns to Edinburgh after several weeks in London, he finds a letter awaiting him. When he sees the half-faded ink, his heart seems to stop in his throat— but it’s Mordechai, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells Jonah that Barnabas has passed away in his isolation. He doesn’t say it, but it’s clear that it wasn’t a natural death. Loneliness will take its toll on any man after long enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If it pleases you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mordechai writes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I will allow you to retrieve his remains.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jonah sends his agreement without hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several days later, he stands in the verdant green of an Edinburgh park and watches the fog creep in. It steals each passerby from his vision, slow and patient and relentless. </span>
  <span>The ache is worse than he expects it to be, slow and patient as it creeps across his vision and leaves him blinded. He is utterly alone, and though he has always held himself apart from other people, the fear of being unable to escape his isolation makes his stomach lurch with nausea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mordechai had left him directions, but Jonah finds himself moving more on instinct than on knowledge. It’s as though there’s a trail of silver guiding his way through the nothingness to where Barnabas lies. He thinks of labyrinths and witches’ cottages, pondering folklore and fairytales as he walks and walks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shore where he finds Barnabas must be the Firth of Forth. The water is far too clear; perhaps an effect of the Lonely, emphasising the lifelessness of the water and the gentle promise of the whispering waves. Jonah leaves no footprints in the sand below his feet. His breath only adds to the mist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There isn’t a body, not really. There’s no flesh that could still induce some pang of nostalgia for when Barnabas yet lived; no soft lips, no sharp eyes. Every shred of identity has been eaten away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All there is are bones, and a shroud of mist that has settled over them, deceptively still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps I did care for you,” Jonah admits in a murmur, though it nearly chokes him to say it. As he steps forward, the fog flees from Barnabas’ bones like a swarm of flies from a corpse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonah leans down and brushes a finger over the smooth paleness of Barnabas’ cheekbone. The caress is almost familiar, a mimicry of tender moments they’d shared all those years ago. It’s gentle in a way that Jonah had never treated him, as though he’s going to crumble below Jonah’s touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, old friend,” Jonah murmurs, lifting the skull so he can meet the empty sockets of its eyes. “I wish I could say that I tried to save you. But we both know that’s a lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wind rushes across the shore. It sounds like the angry hiss of Barnabas’ voice, whispering of betrayal, of heartbreak, of Jonah’s sins and wickedness and arrogance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Jonah replies. “I’ve known all of that for a very long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind dies as quickly as it rose. There’s a sense of grief in that, as though the last pieces of Barnabas have slipped through his fingers. All he has left is ink and bone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonah brings the skull close and presses a kiss to its teeth until his mouth is numb with cold and mist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, academic and precise, he begins to gather up each of the bones, placing them into his bag. Hardly the most convenient method, despite the lightness of the human skeleton, and Jonah is going to have a complicated time putting them all together later, but— Jonah finds himself reluctant to let go of a single piece of Barnabas’ remains. He’s too stubborn to let them fade into the fog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An eternity later, his fingers brush over the skull again. He smiles fondly as he deposits it in its place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he gets to his feet, he is surrounded by people. Mordechai stands in front of him, and his smile is nothing short of sated. Well, damn the bastard to whatever hell he chooses. Jonah has what he came for.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. death of jonah magnus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jonah finds a new body.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jonah is an old man when he attempts to complete the Watcher’s Crown; older still when he finds his second body. The pleasure of restored youth will be a balm to soothe his own failure, even if it won’t be so enjoyable for the poor soul whose life he’ll have to take.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah, well. Such is life. Cruel and senseless violence happens all the time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man he plans to become is named Victor. He’s suitably upper-class, but isolated enough from polite society that no one will notice any shifts in personality. He has a keen interest in the supernatural, and has been with the Institute for several years now. He’s perfect, really.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Naturally, there are other advantages to this course of action beyond the superficial. As it stands, his near-omniscience tethered to the Panopticon; outside its walls, he is as powerless as any ordinary man. However, Jonah has theorised that if he leaves his current body in that ruined temple, it will act as a channel that allows him to access that dizzying power at any time that he so chooses. If he’s incorrect, nothing of consequence will change.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the transferral of consciousness that Jonah hesitates on. It’s more hypothetical than he is entirely comfortable with. He has the evidence of Rayner’s own vessels, and his adapted ritual carries a level of dream-like logic: the eyes as the windows to the soul, and so on and so forth. All the same, the uncertainty makes Jonah apprehensive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonah isn’t getting any younger, though. He has nothing to lose by testing his theories.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s laughably easy to lure Victor to the Panopticon. All Jonah has to do is make a show of having things to do in London that might be taxing for an old man, and make the implication that he’ll need a spare set of hands. Dedicated researcher as Victor is, he offers his services.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tells Victor to take notes as they venture through the tunnels, on the pretense of further study. Victor seems fascinated by Smirke’s architecture; it’s almost a shame that Robert has passed away, because it would be a pleasure to play-act the starstruck young researcher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He climbs to the top of the Panopticon, undeterred by Victor’s concern for his health.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once they stand in that echoing chamber, Jonah smiles, stretching his vision wide across London. He draws a knife from his pocket and turns to face Victor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If it’s any consolation,” Jonah remarks, once he’s got him backed up against a wall. “You were never going to amount to much anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The knife caresses Victor’s eyelid. There are tear tracks running across his freckled cheeks as he begs Jonah to stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonah doesn’t hesitate as he presses down, setting about his meticulous butchery.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once the whole messy business has come to its conclusion, Jonah finds himself lying against the dusty stone wall, desperately trying to reorient himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An old man’s mind doesn’t fit neatly into a young man’s brain, as it turns out. There are echoes of poor Victor’s consciousness seeping into Jonah’s thoughts — bittersweet memories of a girl he’d been attempting to court, grief over the perceived betrayal of someone he looked up to, the terror of his imminent death.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands are shaking as he wipes tears and blood from his cheeks. His fingers are longer than he expected; his skin rougher below his touch than it ever was as Jonah.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s taking longer than he anticipated to adapt to this new body. Jonah doesn’t entirely trust in his ability to walk, or even stand. At least the aches and pains of age have vanished. If anything, this body doesn’t hurt enough — he’s not sure Victor ever saw a hard day’s work in his life. Certainly, he wasn’t as dedicated as the researchers Jonah knew at this age.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs— then, pleased by the low timbre of the sound, he sighs again. Only now, as he glances over at his old body, does he realise an advantage he hadn’t considered before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent,” he murmurs, feeling the bassy resonance of his new voice in his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Jonah, he’d always been blessed with— plausible deniability, for want of a better term. He was short, but so are many men. He was bare-faced and rather too pretty, but in his youth, all that led to was being suspected as a man ten years his junior. He has spent decades of his life covering for the folly of his birth, and now he’s free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lowers his hand to stroke it across his chin, marvelling at the faintest hint of stubble below his palm. He raises that hand to look at it properly, and finds a boyish grin spreading across his cheeks as he examines the broadness of the wrists, the length of the fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonah laughs as he pulls himself to his feet. The sound echoes beautifully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His discarded body lies on the floor, blood streaming from the empty eye sockets. It won’t die, not as long as Jonah carries on. Idly, he considers propping it up in one of the chairs — he always did get terrible backache — but doesn’t bother expending the energy. That isn’t him anymore. It’s just a shell, a tether between him and the awful god he serves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking through the eyes carved into the walls of the room, Jonah studies himself carefully. He must be at least half a foot taller than he was, if not more. When he strokes his hands over the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt, he’s gratified to discover the flatness of his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are more differences to catalogue, of course, so many that he can hardly process them. Jonah is delighted in a way that he hasn’t been in many decades — since the first time he put on a suit and heard someone call him ‘sir’. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He runs his hands down to narrow hips, idly considering the, ah, more intimate places where things are unfamiliar. But he’s rather too worn out for the detailed examination that will be required, nevermind that he’s covered in an unpleasant amount of blood and sweat. Plenty of time for that sort of thing later — Jonah expects to enjoy it immensely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a satisfied sigh, Jonah — or, more properly, Victor — concludes his study of himself. He allows himself a few moments to get used to walking with long legs, and then he begins the slow climb down from the top of the Panopticon.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After several weeks of bureaucracy, Victor finally steps back into the office that used to be Jonah’s. It’s something of a relief to be back in familiar territory. He spends a cursory few hours going through his documents, settling into the comfort of esoterica and management.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That evening, as he’s leaving, he hesitates at the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chiding himself for his sentimentality, he steps back into the office. A moment’s scanning across the room and he finds what he’s looking for: Barnabas’ skull, resting on a shelf.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Victor picks it up, sighing to himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you recognise me, I wonder?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leaning against his desk, he balances the skull on his fingers. It is, as always, cold and unjudging. The dark pits of its eye sockets show no hint of what Barnabas might have felt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you care enough that you would recognise an old friend in a new body?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Humming, Victor turns it one way and other. It’s been a long time since he dwelled on his emotions like this. Barnabas is long gone, and yet he’s still being given the most truth that Victor has ever given anyone — </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> give anyone, he’s fairly certain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs, thinking of Barnabas’ last plea once more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or would I be entirely unfamiliar? After all, you never thought yourself close to me, did you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barnabas’ forehead is smooth below Victor’s fingers. He lifts the skull until his skin meets unforgiving bone. A strange sense of melancholy comes over him, all at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would be morbid to kiss you again, I suppose,” he murmurs dryly. “But so little in my life isn’t morbid. What difference does one more kiss make?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For good luck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Victor thinks, rough lips against unyielding teeth. It’s the closest he can get to knowing how it would be to kiss Barnabas with this mouth. Fragments of potential knowledge, lost forever. He’s far less impetuous than he was as a young man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mist gathers outside the window as he sits in his sorrows for a few moments longer. Then he sighs, putting Barnabas’ skull down on his desk as some kind of macabre paperweight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There will be plenty of work to fill the next few centuries. The least he ought to do is go home and get some rest — his dreams filled with the visions of the Panopticon.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. death of james wright</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>James Wright considers Elias Bouchard.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s a happy coincidence that Elias Bouchard joins the Institute when he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James Wright, as he is now, has been considering the matter of his next body for some months. This one is getting elderly, and even if the Eye gifts him with a certain amount of resilience, he’s hardly immune to all the wear and tear that aging involves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There have been a few potential candidates, but none of them have been quite right. Too connected to other people, too close to getting snapped up by another power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In this modern age, his options should have expanded, but James always finds himself hesitating when he considers any of the female staff in the Institute. They wouldn’t raise any eyebrows as his successor, but the idea of being seen in their bodies — seen as a woman, with all the baggage that entails — makes him nauseous. He can’t bear to go back to that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias Bouchard, for all his considerable flaws, is perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he arrives for his first interview, his hair is short and styled and his suit is well-tailored and far too upmarket for a filing clerk at a poorly-regarded research institute. He reminds James of himself as a young man, all too eager to delight in the new range of clothes afforded to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interview isn’t pleasant. Elias is clearly applying here for lack of a better option, and his attitude leaves a lot to be desired. A skim over his qualifications and his thoughts suggests an uninspiring work ethic, exacerbated by his latest recreational substance of choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you want to work here?” James asks. He has no powers of compulsion, but the question draws the truth into Elias’ thoughts, even as he feeds James a bland falsehood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His parents gave him an ultimatum when he graduated from university. Either they would pay for his living costs, or for his transition — not both. Elias needs this job for food and for rent, because he refused to imagine another day of his body rebelling against his wishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Admirable,” James murmurs, and he means it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias is worried about discovery; James doesn’t need to see his thoughts to know that much. His fear of exposure will seep into the Institute walls, suffusing them with the dread of being known, and his very presence in the building will act as rich sustenance for the Eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, after a few years, James can step into his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Medicine has moved on since his first life. Attitudes have become more permissive. With enough patience and wealth, he fancies that he could shape a body into any form he chose, rather than simply tolerating and obscuring its tells in equal measure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would not be easy, but it would be satisfying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be more </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> than any of the men he’s become over the last century.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obviously, it would require the sacrifice of dear Elias, but it isn’t as though he’s doing much with himself anyway. James is certain he would gain some small comfort in the fact that his supplanter is of the same temperament as him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Elias leaves, startled and delighted at finding steady employment, James sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has become a routine of melancholy, removing Barnabas’ skull from the engraved box he now keeps it in. The bone never warms under his touch, even as he spends long moments weighing it in his palm, thinking about his first life and losing himself in his thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He reminds me of you, you know,” James murmurs. Sometimes he feels the weight of his age keenly. It’s as though a passing breeze may make him crumble to dust. If he hadn’t been so ambitious, he would be nothing but bones by this point as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His wrinkled hands make him frown as he taps his nails against the top of the skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Curious, but so very naive. Entitled and gullible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in centuries, James almost feels like Jonah again. He stares at his reflection in the metal of the box and tries to imagine wearing yet another face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I think I feel bad for him. It’s going to be rather easy to kill him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Remorse has never stopped Jonah from doing what is necessary. That, he tells himself, is why he keeps Barnabas’ bones to this day — as a reminder of his true nature.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Several years later, Gertrude Robinson appears in his doorway. Her hair is beginning to grey, James notes absently, but the iron streaks suit her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was there something you wanted, Gertrude?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you think you’re doing with Elias Bouchard, but I’d prefer it if you put a stop to it. For my sanity, at any rate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense. His work ethic may not be exceptional, but he’s a bright young man underneath the surface. He just needs the correct encouragement towards his full potential.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gertrude’s mouth twists sourly. James idly wonders what salacious conclusions she’s coming to in that sharp mind of hers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep it out of the Institute, at any rate. I doubt the Lukases are paying you to… dally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it would aid your productivity,” James allows, magnanimous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gertrude’s expression only grows more acidic, and she turns on her heel and leaves. She’s as dramatic as any other avatar, and even though he knows she hates him, he’s rather fond.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Elias Bouchard’s body is disconcerting to inhabit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s the usual disorientation, of course; each body is singular in its particular quirks, and this one is no different. There’s the dysphoria he’d expected — height, voice, and chest — and the dysphoria he hadn’t — wrists, shoulders, and brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The strangest thing is the potential. This body has been on testosterone for several months now, and though the changes are subtle, he catalogues everything he can notice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He runs his fingers up his throat, across his chin, and feels a thrill of possibility as he imagines himself the king at the heart of the apocalypse. He looks at himself in the mirror and imagines himself crowned in eyes, watching forever. He never shied away from vanity as Jonah; it seems a fitting enough habit to pick up again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathing out in pleasure, he turns to the other occupant of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you ever consider buying yourself a crown? It would have suited you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James Wright’s body stares up at him with unblinking eyes. He can feel the fear in the air, laced with sweet incomprehension. It must be awful, looking at someone wearing your body with a smile. He relishes the taste of it on his tongue, laughing as the terror only intensifies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, Elias,” he says, dry and fond as he wipes an errant tear from those aged cheeks. “I’ll make sure they have you cremated. You won’t be watching for long.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading! you can find me at <a href="http://screechfoxes.tumblr.com/">screechfoxes</a> on tumblr. have a good day!</p><p><b>fanart:</b> SJ did some <a href="https://focsle.tumblr.com/post/614250991016099840">wonderful art</a> of jonah magnus kissing barnabas' skull, and jay also did some <a href="https://gummybryd.tumblr.com/post/615419116194496512/what-an-insufferable-ratbag-first-pic-is-based">skull-kissing art</a>, and i am over the moon about both!</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25150402">[Podfic] the act of creation</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact">Autodidact</a>
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